


Full Court Press

by fiasco_sauce



Series: Triads and Tribulations [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Sam Wilson, Bucky is trying his best, Cabin Fic, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Omega Steve Rogers, Wooing, bear cubs do not belong in living rooms, he gets there eventually, marigolds do not belong in coffee pots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiasco_sauce/pseuds/fiasco_sauce
Summary: Sam hugs the pot of flowers to his chest and gives Steve a bewildered look. The columbine petals tickle his chin. "What the fuck?""Oh my God,” Steve says. He's laughing, because behind the whole Truth and Freedom thing he’s secretly a giant asshole. "Bucky’s wooing you.""Oh, Jesus Christ.” Sam gingerly bumps a vase and two juice glasses out of the way to make room on the table for the stock pot. “I need coffee before I can deal with this."The coffee pot is full of marigolds.Sam gives up and goes back to bed.(Bucky courts Sam, with mixed results.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of [Den of Iniquity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8039641). This might make more sense if you’ve read the first two fics in this series, but the only necessary background info is that Bucky and Steve were bonded before the war, Steve started dating Sam when he thought Bucky was dead, and now they're all in Bucky’s luxurious-yet-siege-resistant den in the forests of Romania, where Bucky is trying to court Sam.

The first morning after Bucky brings him to the den, Sam walks into the kitchen and stops dead. “What?”

Steve is leaning against the counter, looking around the room in fascination. “I think these are for you.”

Every surface in the kitchen is filled to bursting with flowers. Tiny blue stars on thin vines, big showy yellow and orange blooms, long green stalks with purple bells; Sam doesn’t recognize most of them, but he knows there have to be more than twenty different kinds. The flowers have been shoved into any container that can hold water, from soup mugs to the blender cup. 

As they're standing there gawping, Bucky comes in holding an enormous stock pot overflowing with red and white columbines. His face lights up at the sight of them.

"Steve!" Steve gets his customary kiss on the mouth, which Bucky stretches into something just shy of full-on making out. "Sam!"

Bucky shoves the stock pot into Sam's chest. Sam's arms reach up to grab it automatically, and Bucky leans over the tower of blossoms to press a kiss to Sam's forehead. He surveys the kitchen, snags an empty mixing bowl, and walks back outside with it. A moment later Sam hears the wet crunch of more plants being yanked up from the meadow behind the cabin.

Sam hugs the pot of flowers to his chest and gives Steve a bewildered look. The columbine petals tickle his chin. "What the  _ fuck?_"

"Oh my God,” Steve says. He's laughing, because behind the whole Truth and Freedom thing he’s secretly a giant asshole. "Bucky’s  _ wooing  _ you."

"Oh, Jesus Christ.” Sam gingerly bumps a vase and two juice glasses out of the way to make room on the table for the stock pot. “I need coffee before I can deal with this."

The coffee pot is full of marigolds. 

Sam gives up and goes back to bed.

 

* * *

 

"What the fuck," Sam whispers. He feels like shouting it, but that might spook the three-foot tall bear cub currently sitting in the middle of the living room, eyeing Sam curiously.

"Bear!" Bucky says proudly. He looks at the  _ dangerous wildlife _ which is, for some reason, in the  _ middle of their home _ with a fondly paternal eye. The bear cub has one of their throw pillows clutched to its chest and a length of pretty yellow and pink ribbon tied loosely around its neck, and among the many unanswered questions clamoring for attention in Sam’s head is  _ where did the Winter Soldier find pink and yellow ribbon in the middle of the goddamn woods in Romania? _

"Why," Sam says very, very calmly, "is there a bear in my living room?"

Bucky is starting to wilt a little bit. Obviously his latest present isn't going over as well as he had hoped it would. He ducks his head and looks at Sam through those long, dark eyelashes, which is just unfair. "Pet?" he tries.

"No."

"But--"

"No! Bears are wild animals, Bucky. This is not ecologically sustainable. Plus it's going to shit all over the carpet, and I am not cleaning up bear shit, I did not sign on for that nonsense."

“I’ll walk it.” Bucky is now digging his toe into the carpet and looking up hopefully. His eyelashes should be  _ illegal_.

Sam calls in reinforcements. “Steve!”

Steve walks in and his eyes widen. "Is that a bear cub?"

"Yes. It was just leaving," Sam adds pointedly.

The bear cub blinks, digs its claws into the cushion hard enough that the fabric rips and white fluff spills out, and rolls over onto its side. Its back feet wiggle in the air.

Steve bites his lip. "It's so cute."

"Steven Grant Rogers."

They don't keep the bear, but Steve mopes so pathetically that three days later Bucky turns up with two huge shaggy dogs (Sam thinks they might be half wolf) that adopt Steve on sight and fill the cabin with slobber and relentless affection. 

Sam throws his hands up and says  _ he's _ not going to be the one taking them for walks in the snow at five in the morning, but otherwise accepts that this is out of his hands. After all, compromise is the foundation of any relationship.

 

* * *

 

Sam gives Bucky his best unimpressed look. "You bought me panties?" 

"No." Bucky kneels on the bed and leans over Steve, who’s lying tucked against Sam’s chest. Bucky drapes the silky pink underthings over Steve's face. The stockings are trimmed with lace to match the underwear. "They’re for Steve. Steve  _ in  _ the panties is for you."

Steve raises a hand and uncovers one eye. "Oh, so I’m a present now?"

"Yes," Bucky says firmly. "Good present?"

"Yeah," Sam says. Steve is petting the stocking a little, moving his fingers so little it's barely perceptible. His face is flushed, which could just be embarrassment, but the blush is spreading down his chest, and he’s starting to smell caramel sweet. "Good job, Bucky."

Later that night, Sam drops his head back onto the pillow and catches his breath enough to pant, " _Very _ good job, Bucky."

Bucky purrs with satisfaction and sucks another hickey into Steve’s neck.

Twelve more pairs of silk briefs and stockings appear over the next week. Steve does an impromptu fashion show, Sam nearly swallows his tongue, and Bucky preens for a week straight. 

 

* * *

 

Sam opens bleary eyes to find a worried supersoldier surveying him from a distance of approximately half an inch.

"Argh, fuck--" Sam scrambles back so fast he almost smacks into the headboard, but Bucky's right hand shoots out fast to cradle the back of Sam's skull. Sam glares at him. “Why.”

"You're sick," Bucky says, like it's a death sentence.

"I have a cold, Bucko. The situation is under control, it's not something you need to surveil at," Sam checks the clock, "four in the goddamn morning, are you kidding me?"

"Elevated temperature for a duration greater than three days," Bucky says, in that creepy, uninflected, Hydra-implanted-knowledge voice. His eyes are still all limpid concern, so Sam's not worried he's having a flashback. This is just how Bucky talks sometimes when he’s stressed. "Influenza likely. Influenza can result in impaired respiratory function. Surveillance necessary." 

Sam groans and pulls the blankets up over his face. Bucky waits exactly three seconds and then gently pulls them back down.

"Steeeeeve," Sam moans.

"Steve is sleeping in the living room. Quarantine protocols are in effect."

"Steve doesn't even get sick anymore!"

Bucky's eyebrows draw down mulishly. 

"Sorry, Sam," Steve yells from the living room. Right, super hearing, of course he's heard every word. "I tried to tell him, but, uh, Bucky really, really doesn't want to risk me getting sick."

"One more flu and you'll hack up your goddamn lungs, Rogers!" Bucky yells back, all trace of robot inflection gone, his voice 100% pre-war Brooklyn. "Don't even think about getting out of bed, you stay right fucking there, and keep the hot water bottle on your feet!"

Out of curiosity, Sam wiggles his own toes. Yep, that warm, squishy weight must be a hot water bottle Bucky has tucked under the covers.

It actually feels really nice.

Sam is still trying to think of new and inventive ways to cuss Bucky out when he falls back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s heels scrabble against the bedspread as Bucky’s tongue traces around the head of his cock, the pressure more tantalizing than satisfying. His arms jerk in Steve’s firm hold as he tries to thrust forward, chasing the sensation. Bucky pulls his mouth away entirely and blows out a hot stream of air over Sam’s sensitized cock. 

Sam has lost track of how long Bucky’s kept him on the knife’s edge, backing off every time Sam is about to come. It’s amazing and terrible and  _ amazing_.

“How you holding up?” Steve asks, way too cheerfully. He’s at the head of the bed, his face looming upside-down over Sam’s, watching in heated fascination as Bucky methodically takes Sam apart.

"I hate you both," Sam moans. Bucky just laughs and gives his head a playful lick.

Sam wouldn't be able to handle this much teasing if it weren't for Steve holding him in place, keeping him grounded, but fuck, this is  _ good._ He loves their weight on him, Steve's huge, gentle hands pressing his wrists into the pillow and Bucky's chest and elbows pinning Sam's thighs in place. 

Bucky swallows him back down, and Sam groans and throws his head back. Steve kisses the tip of his nose.

"Hate you so much," he mutters, and Bucky hums with pleasure.

 

* * *

 

Sam wakes up with a gasp. He presses one palm hard over his hammering heart. _Shit, shit, shit._ Every time he thinks the nightmares might be gone, they come back just as vivid as ever, darkness and the rush of air and Riley's scream--

"Sam?"

Steve and Bucky are both sitting up and looking at him, Steve with his careful _I'm not fussing over you because you hate it but I really want to be fussing_ face, Bucky with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"I'm good." It's sort of true. "Just bad dreams. Same old."

"C'mere," Steve says, and holds his arms out. Sam crawls into his lap without an ounce of shame. It's a very nice lap.

Bucky slips out of the room on silent feet. He's giving them space, which Sam guesses he appreciates. So why does he feel a little cold, even wrapped up against Steve's chest?

Just when Sam's wondering if Bucky's going to sleep somewhere else for the rest of the night, he reappears with a mug in his hand. Bucky slides in next to Steve and puts an arm around Sam, no hesitation, and starts rubbing circles into his back.

"Drink," he orders while pressing the mug into Sam's hands. It's warm milk, sweetened and spiced with something. Nutmeg, Sam thinks. He could ask, but he's getting sleepy again, cocooned between Bucky and Steve. Held safe in the arms of his packmates.

The next day, after supper, Bucky hands Sam his coat and jerks his head towards the door, which is his way of saying it’s time to walk the dogs and Sam’s presence is required. 

“All right, all right,” Sam says, shrugging his coat on. “Yo, Frito! Chee-chee! Let’s go!”

They couldn’t agree on what to call the dogs, so now both dogs have three names each. Steve calls them Rutherford and Grover ("To match Buchanan and Wilson and Grant," Steve had said, like the giant history nerd he is), Sam calls the russet dog Cheeto and the golden brown dog Frito ("To match your Dorito shoulders," Sam had told Steve, keeping his face as straight as possible while Bucky cackled in the background), and Bucky, when he uses any words at all, calls them Лисичка and Мышка (because why give dogs real names when you can call them Little Fox and Little Mouse? Bucky probably would have called the damn bear cub the Russian word for puppy). Mostly Bucky just whistles and the dogs understand exactly what he wants. Sam hasn’t ruled out canine telepathy.

Sam and Bucky take a slow, looping path through the woods. The dogs trot ahead, chasing scent trails, running back for pats and scratches whenever Bucky whistles. 

"Tell me about Riley," Bucky says, and Sam does. He talks and talks and talks, until his voice is hoarse but his mind is quiet. Bucky listens, not once interrupting, patient as a mountain and twice as steady.

 

* * *

 

Bucky slips his fingers free and kisses the back of Sam’s neck, his teeth just barely grazing Sam’s scent glands. Sam tilts his head back and tightens his grip on Steve’s hand. Sam is in the middle, Bucky spooned up behind him and Steve stretched out right in front of him, one hand locked with Sam’s while the other strokes his chest.

“Yes?” Bucky asks.

“Still yes,” Sam says, “come on already.” 

The head of Bucky’s cock settles against Sam’s stretched rim. Sam can’t help but push back into it, testing and relieved at the easy give of muscle. Bucky has a gift for slow, agonizingly thorough prep, and Sam’s been ready and eager for what feels like hours, but given Bucky’s ludicrous alpha proportions, the careful prep was probably necessary. 

Bucky’s hands settle on Sam’s hips and he pushes forward, rocking against Sam’s ass. The head of Bucky’s cock slides in, the stretch intense but not uncomfortable. Sam’s breath catches. 

“He likes that,” Steve murmurs. “Oh, Buck, that is just beautiful.” 

Bucky’s teeth scrape over Sam’s scent gland again. His voice is strained when he says, “Yes?”

“Oh my fucking God, Barnes,” Sam snaps, a little too breathless to sound as authoritative as he’d like, “if you don’t get your teeth in me right the hell now--”

Bucky’s hips thrust forward as he bites hard. The sting of the bite is almost lost under a flash of _triumph joy affection MINE_ as the bond snaps into place. 

"Oh," Sam breathes. He can _feel_ it. He can feel Bucky's primal satisfaction, all _keep cherish protect_ , and he can feel Steve's _hunger awe delight_ just as plainly as he can see it on Steve’s face. _There you are_ , Sam thinks, and feels almost giddy.

Until Bucky moves, and Sam loses focus on anything but the pleasure of it, Bucky's senses overlapping with his and adding _hot wet tight_ to the sweet slide of Bucky's cock.

"Jesus fuck," Sam gasps. "No wonder you two can't keep your hands off each other." 

"Just getting started, gorgeous," Bucky murmurs into Sam's ear, and Sam knows it’s a promise.

"Well?" Sam arches his back and feels smug when the shift in angles makes Bucky groan. "Woo away, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky growls and licks the new bonding bite, making Sam yelp with sensory overload. "Sir, yes, sir."

 

* * *

 

Before he drifts off to sleep that night, Sam touches the bonding bite. The connection with Steve and Bucky is a low thrum under his skin. Steve assured him the intensity would lessen over time as Sam got used to processing the new input, but for now it’s hard to tell where Sam ends and his mates begin, piled as they are in a heap on the bed. 

Bucky is doing his usual post-sex Possessive Human Blanket sprawl, draped over both his mates and purring up a storm. Sam, smug and well-fucked and feeling  _ very _ good about his life choices, knows just how he feels.

Sam throws an arm over Steve’s bare chest and closes a hand around Bucky’s metal wrist. “Mine.”

Bucky growls happily and presses Sam deeper into the mattress. 


End file.
